When Things Explode
by newspapercabs
Summary: What if Reese had met Finch before the accident? AU! Slash. Reese/Finch


Disclaimer: I don't own any of this.

A/N: Uh, yeah...I have no idea where this came from.

Warnings: Totally AU! Nathan is evil. Will doesn't exist. And Reese met Finch before the accident. This _is_ slash, so if don't like it, don't read it. ...I think that about covers it.

If you haven't pressed the back button by now, please enjoy.

* * *

_Your skull-fucked little lives in shadows where you hide_

Reese had always been overly protective of Harold ever since he had met the man, even before he had known what exactly Harold did, how brilliant and secretive he really was. He had met him before the accident, in central park where the man used to jog; even back then Harold had been far from trusting, his bright, blue eyes watching Reese warily, like a bird would a cat. This had only made John more intrigued, most people he had met seemed to instinctively trust him; this asset had come in handy on more than one occasion when he had still worked for the CIA, before his rather destructive resignation.

It had taken over a month for the dark shadow of suspicion to slowly ease in those eyes, but the man never once volunteered any information and every time Reese tried to gently pry his secrets open the walls would come up and the dark sting of suspicion would darken his face once more. So Reese settled for arbitrary facts, like finding out that he didn't drink coffee, but loved sencha green tea; the first time he'd been waiting for Harold to finish his run with coffee for himself in one hand and green tea in the other, the other man had stopped dead, disbelief coloring his face.

It had taken some coaxing and some gentle teasing to finally get Harold to take the drink, but it had inexplicably warmed his heart to watch the sweet bliss wash over Harold's face uncensored as he took a small, cautious sip.

This routine had continued for another three months before the _accident_.

He had known something was wrong when he didn't see Harold jogging his usual route on Sunday, he knew instinctively that a man like Harold wasn't someone who _forgot_ anything or changed his routines on a whim, something was _wrong_. And for the first time since he had left the CIA and had begun doing odd jobs, he finally put all his training into good use, putting the dots together and slowly, bit-by-bit putting together the jumbled jig-saw puzzle of Harold's hidden life.

The first connection he found was a man by the name of Harold Wren an underwriter for an insurance company for a number of years and than another connection, Nathan Ingram, the founder of IFT, but something seemed _off_ about that.

He followed each line of evidence until it finally led him back to IFT and some dusty, forgotten files on the basement floor, suspiciously locked up tight. With some skill he got past the security and had found the missing piece (at least one of them), Ingram _wasn't_ the only founder of IFT, Harold also had a hand in it and Reese was beginning to realize that maybe Ingram had only been the face of the company, the man was certainly handsome enough to charm anyone the company happened to need.

And then he had found out about Harold's (not Ingram's) brilliant, terrifying creation: the _machine_.

**.**

_A life that was designed, you've been cheated, oh so blind_

Everything after that, as they say is history. Reese had tracked him down to the hospital where he was currently staying at and had remained by the man's side, easily sneaking in after hours to curl up by his bedside like a loyal guard dog. Harold couldn't seem to believe that Reese had gone through all the trouble, had still _wanted_ to find him after finding out about what he had created—what he had _done_.

And one night, after the nurses had left (they had long given up on removing him), the truth came spilling out because there was now a coldness that resided permanently in those eyes that hadn't been there before.

"I was betrayed," he said softly.

By Ingram no less; the man had made a deal with the devil, exposing his friend, the true mind behind the Machine in exchange for money and power (it seemed man's greed knew no bounds) and the governments protection; Reese knew that last part wouldn't last for more than a decade, the government made a habit of tying up loose ends.

But what Reese wasn't expecting was fury that boiled through his blood, making his chest heavy and hot. With great restraint he reined in the violent impulse to utterly destroy Ingram for hurting Harold, but he had more important things to worry about right now.

**.**

_You laid it on the line_

Throughout Harold's physical recovery, Reese was told about the backdoor he had created, allowing him to access the Machine to either initiate an emergency shutdown, something Harold would only consider as a last resort and to retrieve the 'irrelevant numbers'. Harold told him that he had known about him all along, about the work he used to do for the government, about _Jessica_; he pointed out that now the world believed both dead.

And then he offered him a job.

**.**

_These twisted words of time_

He got rid of the identity of Harold Wren and adopted the name Harold Finch. He led Ingram to believe that he had, in fact won.

When in reality, the war was only just beginning.

**.**

_And how your spirit shines_

After he was discharged Harold directed him to one of his many safe houses (Harold may have trusted Nathan, but he had never revealed anything that could be used against him, something that had saved his life). He bought a foreclosed library by one of the banks that he controlled, putting the building into a kind of limbo; Reese helped him move all the computer equipment he needed to the upper floors and carefully watched Harold put the computers together piece by piece, all the while making sure that the man didn't overexert himself.

Even after physical therapy Reese found that Harold still tried to do things he simply couldn't anymore; the steel rods and unbending bone of his spine were still horribly foreign and sent punishing waves of pain through Harold's damaged body when he tried to force his body into something it could no longer do.

It was painful to watch, especially the expression frustration burn its way across Harold's face every time he struggled with something he hadn't only a month ago. But it was something to be said about how stubborn the man was he never gave up, pushing and pushing until he simply couldn't anymore.

Reese helped when he could, but his knowledge of computers was limited; it was a long two weeks until everything was set up to perfection, with wifi discreetly installed and the electricity returned to the dead building without invoking the curiosity of the electrical company. It really was amazing what Harold could do with his computers.

And then the irrelevant numbers began coming and Reese felt his broken humanity slowly return piece by jagged piece with every face he could hunt or help. With Harold's voice in his ear telling him information he could've only _dreamed_ of as an operative they made each number a face, a person that was always relevant to _someone_.

**.**

_I wish that you were mine_

Inch-by-inch, piece by piece their wounds slowly healed leaving only scars in their wake; Reese could finally sleep at night without the help of alcohol quieting his mind. Harold's physical pain remained, but the corkboard of all the irrelevant numbers he had let pass by unnoticed no longer grew any larger. They weren't erasing their sins, or denying their failures, but little-by-little the weight of their past didn't feel so heavy anymore.

The barriers and walls that had once existed between the two had somehow fallen away without their knowledge or permission. Trust was something neither of them came by very easily, but somehow they had found what they had lost so many years ago, in each other.

It wasn't something Reese was about to let go of anytime soon. He wouldn't another man like Harold if searched for the next thousand years; to find someone who knew "exactly everything" about him and wasn't afraid, could look him in the eye and not see a monster.

It was frightening to realize how much he truly relied on this man, to know that if he simply disappeared tomorrow, Reese would break, break far worse than he had when Jessica died. To know that he would never stop, never rest until he found Harold again. His life, which had been filled with such beautiful light (_hope_) when he had met the guarded, reclusive man, would return to its desolate existence, empty and dark. He would fall deeper into the darkness than he had before with no hope of ever crawling out.

He realized this, accepted it and it scared the hell out of him. This self-imposed job that Harold felt he had to do was dangerous. Harold's words when he had been describing the job came back to haunt him: _"Sooner or later, both of us will probably wind up dead; _actually _dead this time."_ His voice had been dry with somber humor, a cold, rationalized acceptance of his fate.

Reese hadn't tried to refute it; just because it was bitter and hard to swallow didn't make it any less true. It just made the time they had all the more precious, coveted.

He hadn't taken the chance the Jessica, he wasn't about to make the same mistake twice.

**.**

_I know that I've been crawling; I know that I've been falling into your dream_

Their luck had run out eventually.

Their unusual activity had been noticed; Ingram may not have been as intelligent as Harold, but he was far from stupid and with the government at his beck and call, he was more dangerous threat than Elias. He had sent Snow after them, a man seemingly without a conscious that had a personal score to settle with Reese.

John should've known that he couldn't have run forever.

"Its time to come home John, the slates been wiped clean." Snow's voice was still as oily as a snake and about as trustworthy as one.

Reese's eyes were hard and cold, unwavering in their resolve and accepting of his fate. "You know that will never happen."

Pain burned through his abdomen and he was knocked to the ground by the shot to his knee, even as he fired off his own shots, shattering the glaring headlights of the black van. Pulling himself to his feet he disappeared down the stairwell, leaving a well-marked trail of blood behind him. He could hear the New York detective that had been hunting him for the past six months follow him down, her steps hesitant and unsure as she followed his blood trail.

He was trapped. There was only thing left to do.

With trembling, bloody fingers he dialed the well-known number, feeling relief warm his chest as the call connected.

"Harold," he breathed.

"John," the use of his first name made him smile, "I've been trying to call you."

He glanced over his shoulder as he steadily made his way down, "Yeah, been kind of busy."

"Where are you?" Reese hated how Harold's voice quivered, wishing he could soothe away the man's fears, but no, he couldn't lie to him.

"Parking structure," his voice was becoming weak, wavering between each syllable. "It's not looking good." Silence sizzled between the lines and Reese continued as he got closer to the ground floor, "I wanted to say thank you Harold, for giving me a second chance." What a terrible way to say goodbye and with still so many regrets and unfulfilled promises. He still hadn't managed to kiss Harold yet.

"Its not over John, I'm close, just get to the ground floor," there was steel in Harold's voice and those determined words nearly froze Reese with paralyzing fear. No, _no_, Harold couldn't come; he couldn't put himself in that kind of danger.

"No," he said desperately, his voice shaking, "you stay away. Don't even risk it." But even as he said it he knew the stubborn man wouldn't listen, would come regardless. The blood loss was darkening his vision and making his limbs shake, but he continued walking towards the exit with a stubborn single-mindedness.

Pushing open the door, he saw the sleek black luxury car pull to a stop as Harold hurried from the car, limping towards him, his eyes dark with fear as he caught him, his arm looping around his waist.

Reese struggled to keep his weight off of him, but his body felt so heavy and his mind was slipping making it harder to control his shaking body. He vaguely heard the door slam open again a moment afterwards.

"Hold it," it was Carter, her black eyes burning fiercely at them and he struggled to get his body to move, to place himself in between her and Harold, but his feet weren't cooperating. He saw her eyes widen in disbelief as they fell on Harold, "You—"

Indecision crumpled her beautiful features, her dark eyes glancing towards the underground garage, where no doubt Snow was closing the distance between them. A pained, broken expression fell on her face as she withdrew her gun and walked towards them.

"Get him out of here, come on," her voice was hard, but her eyes were still clouded with uncertainty as she took him from Harold's arms and helped him into the back of the car. He looked at her, his eyes pale, but still reflecting his gratitude. Her lips twisted into a grimace and for a moment he thought she was going to cry. "Go," she ordered, slamming the door.

He felt the car shift into gear and take off down the exit ramp.

And as he watched the street lights blur and the world fade with Harold's voice whispering urgently in his ear to "hang on" he couldn't help but feel as if he were drowning in a dream.

**.**

_Imagine no more tears, dissolving all your fears_

It was the graveyard hour and Harold was finally asleep, curled in his arms, his head resting on his shoulder and his soft puffs of air tickling his neck.

The inevitable confrontation between Harold and Ingram was drawing closer with every completed number, every narrow escape that left their hearts pounding in their throats as they clung to each other within their haunted library reassuring themselves that the other was right here, that they were still _alive_.

Closing his eyes he breathed in Harold's scent, the smell of warm tea, circuitry and old books and pulling him closer he gently pressed his lips against his forehead, relishing the warm skin beneath his lips.

They would never have forever, but they had _this_ and it was enough.

**.**

_With tooth and claw we fight, into this endless night_

Pain burned through his body and sharpened his mind as adrenaline pumped strength through his limbs. Snow was injured, bleeding and unconscious on the muddy ground with Evan standing above him, aiming his handgun at him with a shaking hand, his right arm broken and useless at his side, the numbing shock of pain turning the sniper's well-trained body against him.

The tension thickened; Reese was out of ammo and his wasn't sure if his legs would obey him if Evan decided to fire, so they stood in a stand still, sizing each other up, like two wolves circling each other, searching for any weaknesses in their posture.

The tension snapped with a phone call, starling Evan that he dropped his gun, the weapon clattering harmlessly to the ground. Reese didn't move and suddenly he felt his ear pierce come to life, only Harold wasn't talking to him.

"_You wouldn't,"_ it was the CIA director and he sounded pissed and a little scared, _"Its government property now."_

"_Call your dogs off director,"_ Harold ordered calmly, _"dissolve your agreement with Nathan Ingram and I will leave _it_ alone,"_ he paused, allowing his threat to offer to sink in, _"unless you'd rather explain to six other people who know about the machine, as to why it suddenly stopped working."_

Reese felt something in his chest tighten at those words. Harold was willing to go that far to save _him_? Looking over at Evan he realized that he had received a ghost call, undeniably from Finch who probably had been watching the scene all along, deciding now was the best time to act.

"_Don't make me ask again director,"_ Reese never knew Harold could sound so terrifying; his voice was cold, icy, indifferent almost robotic if it hadn't been for the whisper of anger simmering just beneath his politely, threatening words.

Reese heard the director swallow thickly on the other end of the line, _"How can I trust you won't shut it down anyway?"_

"_I imagine you don't,"_ Harold said dryly, _"but do really want to risk it?"_

A long space of silence fell after Harold's politely veneered threat before a ragged sigh was heard through the line not ten seconds later. _"Very well,"_ he said tiredly, his voice soft and feeble.

"_Call them off now, so I can hear you,"_ Harold ordered.

Reese would've smiled in triumph if his heart wasn't in his throat as he waited for the promised call. Not a moment later, his patience was rewarded.

He saw Evan eye him warily as he answered the call, "Sir?"

"_Abort the mission,"_ the director ordered curtly, _"we're no longer taking orders from Mr. Ingram."_

"But Reese—" Evan began to argue, looking straight at him and John tensed.

"_He's no longer our concern. Abort the mission."_

"But—"

"_Are questioning my orders, agent?"_ The director asked coldly.

Reese saw Evan grit his teeth, glaring at him, "No sir," he ground out.

"_Good. Now get out of there."_ The call ended with an abrupt click.

His own ear piece got disconnected; Evan was still glaring at him, but made no move to harm him, going so far as to ignore his fallen gun, instead hauling Snow over his shoulders and walking away without a word.

Reese watched him go, his breath coming in short, broken pants and his limbs shaking with adrenaline. Swallowing thickly, he dialed Harold's number, hoping he was done dealing with the director of the CIA.

"Harold," he breathed brokenly.

"John, are you ok?" The iciness in his voice had disappeared, his words warm and filled with worry.

He smiled, a weak laugh falling from his lips, "No worse for wear Harold; nothing a few days of sleep won't cure."

"I see," he paused, "do you want me to come pick you up?"

"No thanks," Reese said, feeling the strength slowly return his limbs as the aftereffects of the adrenaline faded from his bloodstream, "I've got to return Carter's car anyway."

He heard Harold snort in amusement, "Hurry home Mr. Reese."

John paused, a small, painfully sincere smile drawing up his lips. _Home._ "Yeah Harold, I'll be home soon."

_All is forgiven  
_

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_Please Review.  
_


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